It Is Written

black bloggers to follow in 2019

Every now and then [more often than I am putting on for the sake of humility] a really good idea hits me. Usually it’s a topic for an essay or a book or a poem or even a caption. I’ll see it vividly in my head, sit down to execute and then freeze. I am frozen by this sudden compulsion to do anything, but the task at hand. Right now, as I write this short little musing, it is to avoid writing another chapter of a book I have outlined in painful detail.

Read: Life Support

I used to think it was because I didn’t enjoy writing anymore. I used to think that the thing that set my soul on fire would rarely bring me to a smolder anymore.

I forced myself to write things about conquering life and setting goals and being efficient and linens and party planning and rote topics drummed up on a content calendar during a brainstorm session designed to drive KPIs.

I spent so much time trying to figure out how to make a living from my craft that I stopped doing my craft entirely. I sucked the soul out of it and wondered why it stopped giving me life.

I needed to remember that:

I write because there isn’t a time I can remember where that was something I didn't do. I breathe. I blink. I write.

In grade school it was short stories. We learned about archetypes and I wrote Cinderella a new fate. In middle school it was romance novels. In high school I moved on to poetry and songs. I strung words together for the joy it brought and the way time stopped while I was doing it. I wrote my first book without ever worrying that no one would read it, but me.

I needed a reminder that:

I am a writer, not because titling it gives this thing I do out of love validity, but because it was written that I would be long before I even picked up a pen.

It was my journal that served as a reminder that even my venting could be poetic. It reminded me of knack and fun and calling.

Read: Pages from My Journal

When a new idea sparks that flame again and I sit down to resistance, I know that perhaps things are more complicated now simply because it is glaringly clear that this is who I am; I was made to do this. And tapping into your pure, unadulterated power is a dangerous thing that the darkness of the world can’t allow without a fight. Without resistance.

Read: Resistance (creativity)

There is a delicate balance I strive for each day, as I sit down pen to paper, as I rediscover parts of myself that I repressed for so long. That balance calls for an intuition that knows the difference between I-don’t-feel-like-it’s sparked by mental blocks versus those sparked by a lack of alignment.

As I get comfortable being me again, being a writer again, it seems to me that the only barometer for necessity comes from whether or not a piece of me feels missing once I reach the last word. If I am not on that page, then I was not called to create it. The world could do without.

I am tired of making things that the world could have down without. I owe it to my gifts to honor them with truth every time I put them to use. I owe it to my identity to write the things that remind me of the blaze I felt the first time I decided Cinderella would not actually lose her shoe at midnight. Resistance be damned.